Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Jane, did you track cow dung in the shower again?

Finally a room with a bathroom that’s not down the hall, not
a hole in the ground, and comes with actual hot water since Kalopani some 30
miles ago, and in no time at all it resembles the soles of our shoes.

I stand under the faucet fully clothed, lathering away
layers of dust, mud and sweat blended by rain into tattoos on my skin. It’s
another good day along the ancient Nepalese trade route from Pokhara to Mustang
in the Annapurna Sanctuary.

Hanging laundry on the tea house roof with a Buddhist temple
behind me, my colleagues are on the terrace below sharing afternoon tea while
watching flocks of horned sheep bleating their way down main street.

We arrived here, above tree line, by way of five days trekking
through rice terraced farmland, dense forests of rododendron,
acacia, chestnut and blue pines. Above the forest came the wide slate-gray river
valley, devoid of any color tones but Earth.

Walls, paths, steps and roofs of impeccable
masonry strategically bordered manageable springs below neck-craning waterfalls
in the Modi Khola Valley. People descended of the Magar and
Gurung tribes populate this valley. They look up from their looms or wheat
harvesting to watch us pass on our caterpillar-speed climb to reach respectable
elevation through towns named Ghandruk, Tadapani, Ghorepani Tatopani, Ghasa,
Marpha and Kagbeni.

High above us are the clouds. And above those clouds are the
Dhaulagiri Mountain range, the Annapurna peaks I-IV, the giants of the Lamjung
Himal, Hiunchuli, the Churen Himal range, Gangapurna, Mt. Nilgiri, Tukuche and
Thorung peaks.

We came to Nepal to walk among these giants. For months our
gang of veteran hikers trained with long day hikes and backpacking trips to the
Sierras and Mt. Rainier. We packed and re-packed for the three week Annapurna
Circle Trek with Ang Phuri Sherpa and his Sherpa Journeys operation that would
have us topping Thorong-La Pass at 17,765 feet, a mere footstool
to these majestic masterpieces of tectonic dancing between the Indian and Asian
plates.

No panoramic stills or documentary films can prepare the
uninitiated for that first in-the-flesh sight of an Annapurna Range peak
accepting the blush of dawn.

Say it with me: Machhapupuchhare. Affectionately known as
Fish Tail, she steals the show from sister peaks Annapurna I and IV throughout
our first few days while we struggle up slate steps in sunshine then rain,
dodging squirming puddles of worms among roots in the rainforest, while plucking
leeches from our ankles. These centuries-old trails are living organisms
transformed daily by the rains, the sun, the goats, rock slides and inveterate mountain
springs.

Carrying only day packs with essentials like water, rain
gear, trail food, cameras and first aid kits, we followed our Sherpa guides and
the stalwart porters in their flip flops humping baskets with our extra gear
and tents through these trails and the many shortcuts. The Sherpa people are as
storied as the Himalayas themselves. There are other guides in these mountains,
including many from India. But only Sherpas are born with generations of local knowledge
in their blood. You want to travel with them.

Ang Phuri Sherpa was a porter at 16, kitchen boy at 18, then assistant
guide until finally invited to join the elite group of Sherpa guides. He
complemented our company with cousins and second cousins from his own village. They
made sure no one was ever alone on the trail, no one left a camera on a chair
or a blouse drying by a tea house stove. They observed from body guard distance
when we shopped, and laughed with us when the only song we all knew the words
to was a little gospel number by Janis Joplin that starts, “Oh Lord, wonchoo
buy me…?” You know the one.

Breakfast has become a competitive sport. The custom is to
order the night before, giving the
kitchen a head start. But in the morning, no one remembers what they ordered. Tony’s
meal is easy: toast. Usually. New York John’s is equally predictable:
everything no one else is eating, and then what’s left. My vote eventually fell to the Nepalese tsampa (toasted
barley) porridge. Fruit was hard to find above 12,500’ elevation, as were any
vegetables for vegetable curry or minestrone soup at lunch or dinner. Tea and
coffee were the same color (pale caramel) once our supply of Starbuck’s Vias
ran out. Note to self: never run out. We learned that anything can be saved
with yak milk and honey.

But here, at 13,000’ in Muktinath, most of us were losing
our appetites: to altitude, and to anxiety over the next day’s goal: rising at
2 a.m. and hiking to Thorong-La Pass, the midway point in our 145-mile journey.
It would also be the high point at 17,765’.

It takes us only a few hours to gather our stuff and hike
three miles to West Base Camp where the crew has set up classy, tall tents for
us rather than have us squeeze into inadequate rooms in the tiny tea house.
Some of us buzz up the trail a half mile to test our legs and lungs in the
thinning air after another carb-heavy lunch, and return in time to beat the
afternoon rain.

We watch hikers coming down from the pass. They looked haggard,
sunburned, stumbling tired. They tell us we’re insane to hike up the slope they
just walked down. A sign on the restaurant tells us this is the world’s
steepest ascent/descent at elevation.

Our crew is quiet, humming over hot tea, soup and rice by
candlelight as the rain fades to fine mist. It is warm and dry in the tents until
a ripple of sound shatters my deep forever sleep: the heavy wooden door of the
tea house closing, the horses’ bridle bells clanging, tent zippers, hushed
voices. By candlelight metal spoons demand more from the bottom of empty porridge
bowls. At 3 a.m. the chunk-chunk of leather boots finding purchase in dark
muddy ground sets our day in motion. Two members of our crew, determined to
make the pass despite several days of illness, braved the narrow trail on horseback.

Grateful for the palette of stars above rather than rain
clouds, and only a mildly chilly breeze, we each followed the boots in front of
us till daylight somewhere revealed Thorong-La peak.

Pausing after two hours for hot Nescafe capucchino that
Pemba and Lapka toted in thermoses, we watched a tidal wave of fog follow us up
the valley. We were not going to be able to look over the black hills behind us
to the northwest leading into the forbidden Upper Mustang Region of Tibet. But
we could feel it. Thousands
of refugees now live in this part of Nepal. The harsh contours of the land,
the Buddhist faith and the risks people take to support the exiled Dalai Lama,
paint a dramatic picture few outsiders can understand. One can’t help but think of the
vagueries of borders in regions like this, or Afghanistan, Pakistan, India,
Kenya, or other vast spaces where political nations draw lines in sand they never see. We turned and cast our souls to the east where Thorong-La
was once again concealed by clouds and the breeze was delivering a light snow
in our faces.

Daylight began to reflect off the frozen ground. Trekkers
were starting to appear heading down. We paused to imagine what would upset the
massive glaciers precariously packed into rock overhangs on Thorong-La miles
wide, miles away. After five hours and forty minutes, two false summits and
another round of Nescafe, we fell into the arms of our two horse-back companions
at the pass, snow lingering on windy tears as we gathered for group photos among
the hundreds of prayer flags strung between monuments.

There were moments here for each of us; our own private
summit reverie. Ashes to be strewn, physical goals attained, spiritual moments
cherished. In the gathering storm, we collected our ragged selves and left with
a glorified moment that was worthy of the hard work, and also representative of
the laughter along the journey.

Things were different on the other side. East Base Camp was
cold and barren. Jane didn’t track cow dung into our shower. There was no
shower. We quarantined her by herself with packets of vitamin C for the night.
Maybe she was the only one who slept through the noisy night of trekkers and
horses coming and going.

We trotted through a drizzling rain next morning down the
narrow path carved across a hillside of the loose slate we affectionately call “despicable
scree.” Not a good place to lose one’s footing. Waterfalls were the only life we
saw in the scree for half a day till scrub and tall shadows became patches of
trees growing at impossible angles in this steep valley below three peaks were
couldn’t yet see: Manaslu, Gangapurna and Annapurna IV.

At the Yak Hotel in Manang we were easily placated over the
lack of hot water (solar heating doesn’t work in the rain) with popcorn and
Gorkha beer, yak burgers and the best veggie burger I’ve ever had in my life.
Marigolds in #10 cans, prayer wheels, thrashing wheat: we were back in
civilization.

How do the residents not spend the
entire day just staring? Or wondering how it might be to stand atop one of
them? Working in gardens of cabbage and corn, harvesting wood in teams from the forest, watching trekkers and porters
on a journey passing through, don’t they think about following along? In the morning, tears streamed down my face at the beauty of
the sun painting morning on the peaks of Manaslu, Gangappurna and Tilicho.

It is day 13, we are huddled in fleece over breakfast and I
am in triage holding my right boot together with pilfered super glue and duct
tape. It holds up through the muddy 15-mile day to Timang, where we witnessed
the mixed fortune chicken crossing the road in front of a jeep, which careened
to the side and spared it, only to have the ignoble destiny of becoming our
dinner several hours later.

We are back in the land of butterflies and bamboo. Enormous
waterfalls plummet from dark crevasses on the canyon walls and vehicles can
access the roads we are now travelling. Melons dangle from tin roofs, and
children wearing Angry Birds tee shirts ask for chocolate and pens as we pass.
After dropped down 2,200’ of elevation by lunch, Ang diverts us down a goat
path, across a narrow suspension bridge then up the other side on steps, steps
and more steps through rice fields and a gain of 1,700’ in two miles to the
town of Bahundanda. The final insult to aching quads is the 60 steps to our
rooms at Splendid View Motel, where the bathrooms are downstairs. The town’s
children came to perform Nepalese dances for us just as the lights went out all
over town. But of course, with candles, flashlights and a pot for a drum, the
performance went on a planned, and we cheered the kids one more time the next
morning as we met them on the trail passing by their homes next morning.

My boots survived surgery, enough to be retired with dignity
in the town of Bhulbhule. Ang thoughtfully sweetened our sadness on this last
night with a cake, decorated in our honor. We served the porters first.

It’s impossible to sleep here, in my corner room above the
street. Metal shop doors pulled down, then up. Dogs barking incessantly,
tractors driving by, roosters, monks playing music at 5 a.m. The chubby Russian
guy from across the hall walks by my balcony window in his underwear. There’s
two men playing badminton in the street by 6 a.m.

We were left to our own
thoughts on the five-hour bus ride to Kathmandu, past the wide river with
glacier-blue waters.

There’s a reason so much of the land in Nepal is designated
as sanctuary. To be among these peaks, even at our meager elevations, is
humbling. Clearly the inspiration for meditation among the mountains influenced
the isolated sites of Buddhist temples built on dramatic cliffs next to nothing
but atmosphere. We have only glanced the experience of those living here. Over the
course of our journey we gained 30,153 total feet elevation and dropped down 18,182
feet from the pass:higher than
Mt. Everest as the raven flies. But I’m happy to leave summiting the
giants to mountaineers. For me it is grace enough to walk beside them.

5 comments:

How grateful I am for your story, both the words and the pictures, they literally change the way I will approach my day in Southern California,how can they not? Knowing that those hills exist, and that those people exit, and having a sense for the scale of the beauty brings me closer to God.

The photos you captured, and the truth and sentiment of your words have improved my day and once again given me bigger view of the beauty of God's handy work (people, places and things). Thank your for filling my morning with a both thrilling and calming appreciation for the world and for life.

Dear Peggy,i really enjoyed your blog, your article is in such an amazing details and description of cultures, scenery, and advanture that anybody would feel they have travel the same path as you and I have traveled. It has been a great pleasure to be hiking with you and all other friends and I look forward to our next adventure together.

Peggy: A glorious account. I especially love the fluttering, criss-crossed flags photograph. I shared it with Allegheny College journalism in the public interest students on our Facebook page. Thank you for sharing your work and your story. https://www.facebook.com/alleghenyjournalism